


Obsessions

by ohlawsons



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Asexual Character, F/M, asexual sole survivor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 16:48:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5709763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohlawsons/pseuds/ohlawsons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The oddest things catch Catherine's attention.</p>
<p>No spoilers for the main storyline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obsessions

She would do anything to have a full length mirror again.

For now, Catherine makes do with a cracked hand mirror which seems to have a permanent layer of grime and dust covering it. She keeps it tucked safely away in her pack, pulling it out less and less as it ceases to be about vanity and becomes about practicality, mostly to check that she hasn’t missed any errant strands when tying up her hair.

She stares down at it now, frowning. Chapped lips. A half-healed scratch across the left side of her forehead. Dark circles under her eyes. Dust and mud and various blemishes that would’ve, not too long ago, made her shudder in embarrassment.

The Saturday afternoon barbeques had always seemed to be a complete waste of time to her; the men stood around the grill and bragged, while the women sat in uncomfortable lawn chairs and gossiped.

And now that it’s all gone, she misses them.

Sundresses and meticulously curled hair and endless small talk were preferable to her current situation, however much she’d despised it all before. Well, despised _some_ of it — the opportunity to dress up was one she enjoyed, considering she had spent most of her time in lab coats with her hair pulled back. It was _definitely_ better than the ill-fitting coat, tattered scarf, and stained hat she wore most of the time now. Though, the hat was growing on her.

Said hat now sits atop a rusted stovetop, along with Catherine’s pack and a handful of supplies she’d scavenged from the wrecked house’s living room and kitchen. MacCready is upstairs, searching for anything else useful they might find in the house. Catherine had offered to keep a lookout downstairs, but as soon as she was alone, had slouched down onto the couch to rest.

It isn’t that she’s _tired_ , necessarily — of course, “tired” has taken on a whole new meaning during her time in the wasteland — but that she needs time alone. Since joining up with Preston, Catherine hasn’t had a moment to herself, not really. She picked up quickly on the fact that her life expectancy is a _lot_ better with someone she trusts at her side. As a result, she spends most of her time incredibly burnt out socially.

She really, _really_ wants to be able to lock the door, flop on the bed, and watch tv until she falls asleep.

Instead, she sets the hand mirror down on the coffee table beside her shotgun and does her best to suppress a groan as she hears MacCready’s steps coming down the stairs. “Anything good?”

“A few caps and a pistol that’s pretty worthless. Ammo’s good, though.” He pauses for a moment; when he speaks again, Catherine can practically _hear_ him grinning. “And something I think you’ll like.”

“Is it—” Before Catherine can finish asking if the item in question is wine, MacCready plops a hat down on her head.

“If anything, it’ll keep you from wasting caps at that shop in Diamond City.”

She tugs the baseball cap off almost immediately, inspecting it. The white is stained a dull grey, and though the thread has faded to a soft pink, she can still make out the embroidered _B_ on the front. “I may have lived in Boston,” she comments lightly, “but I was a Yankees fan growing up. Dad’s probably rolling in his grave right now.”

MacCready leans forward, resting his arms on the back of the couch and holding one hand out expectantly. “If you don’t want it, give it back.”

“No.” Baseball might’ve been a serious topic in the Washington household while Catherine was growing up, but she figures she can’t exactly afford to be picky about which team’s merch she stumbles upon now. The cap’s a bit big, but fits comfortably enough. Once Catherine’s satisfied, she tilts her head up to look at MacCready, grinning. “You’re spoiling me, Mac.”

He ducks his head, but she still catches the sudden flush on his cheeks. “Yeah, whatever. It’s just a _hat_.”

Catherine considers continuing to tease him, but decides she doesn’t quite have the energy. “If you’re done showering me with gifts, we should probably head out,” she announces, glancing outside. There’s still a few hours of daylight left, but they’ve got a ways to walk and neither of them are particularly fond of traveling at night. With luck, they could make it back to Sanctuary not long after nightfall. “Or,” she shrugs, “we could hang around a bit longer and go the rest of the way by the light of my Pip-boy.”

“ _Christ_. We’re not doing that again.”

“Didn’t think so.” Grabbing her gun and the hand mirror, Catherine shoves both the mirror and her old hat in her pack, tossing it over her shoulder. “Ready?”

* * *

 

They’re sitting in the top floor of a mostly-intact office a ways outside of Lexington when Catherine inspects the baseball cap again.

MacCready watches as she turns it over and over in her hands, running a thumb over the _B_ on the front and frowning at the oddly shaped hole on the back and dabbing at what looks like dried blood on the side. When she glances up to catch him staring, he stubbornly turns his attention back to his rifle.

He’s _supposed_ to be mad at her.

Catherine took her role as General of the Minutemen so damn _seriously_ , and it was costing them. Again. They’d been short on supplies originally, but had stocked up in Diamond City and would’ve been fine if she hadn’t insisted on checking up on one of her outposts.

Which, naturally, had taken just long enough that they’d had to call it a night instead of traipsing around in the dark, attracting every fucking thing in a five mile radius because Catherine wanted the Pip-boy for light and the radio for noise.

He’d suffered through that _once_.

If she wants the light and the radio, fine. He wouldn’t argue that — not that he could hold an argument with her much these days, anyway — but it was going to be in an empty building with as few entrances as possible.

“So.” He sets his rifle aside, finally admitting to himself that he won’t be able to concentrate on anything, not with the way Catherine’s face is scrunched in concentration. It’s… distracting. “Earlier you said you’d explain how a doctor knows so much about getting into places she shouldn’t be.”

She glances up from the baseball cap, one eyebrow inching upwards. “Sure. How often should I pause so you can do that thing where you sigh really angrily and roll your eyes?”

MacCready huffs a sigh, but manages to keep from rolling his eyes. _Damn her._

“Yeah, like that.”

“I’m not mad at you,” he insists, though his tone does little to support his words. “Look, I’m frustrated because we’re out of water and all we have left is one fu— a box of Instamash to share in the morning.” He sighs again and repeats lamely, “I’m not mad at you.”

“I know,” she says, matter-of-factly, crossing her legs and staring down at the baseball cap, mouth set in a dissatisfied frown. They sit in silence for a moment, and when Catherine speaks again, her words come out rushed. “I’m not actually a doctor. That just sort of slipped out when I met Preston. And I went with it, because, y’know. This was all just a really, really, _really_ awful nightmare and I’d wake up and it wouldn’t matter.”

“Explains your medical advice,” he teases. “So, what? You picked locks for a living?”

She laughs, her face lighting up as she relaxes. “No, god no. I didn’t lie _quite_ that much. I was a scientist — I did biomedical research. So like, _doctor adjacent_ as far as careers go. It’s not… that far of a stretch. Kinda.”

“Biomedical? And you still suggested a stimpak for a broken arm?”

Her cheeks turn almost as red as her hair. “It helped,” she insists. “And in my defense, my specialty was genetics. Not broken arms. But to answer your question,” she says quickly, an obvious attempt to change the subject, “you can thank my father. I went through this phase when I was… maybe ten or eleven. I, uhh…” Catherine pauses, her blush deepening. She fumbles with the baseball cap a moment before finishing. “Well, I wanted to do stuff like learn to pick locks and shoot a gun and swoop in dramatically to save the damsel in distress. He was surprisingly encouraging. Took locks off of half the stuff in the house and spent _hours_ explaining how and why it all worked.”

MacCready has no problem imagining her doing any of that — the issue comes with trying to imagine her _excited_ about things Catherine now clearly despises. With the exception, of course, of swooping in dramatically to save people. “Pick locks, shoot guns, save the damsel in distress,” he echoes. “So like some sort of superhero?”

“More like… a really edgy detective.”

He can’t help it — he laughs. Less at her confession — which is endearing, _cute_ even — and more at the image of how her first meeting with Nick must’ve gone.

“You’re an ass.” She’s _trying_ to glare at him, but her own laughter bubbles up and her scowl doesn’t last. “And before you ask, yes, I had a coat just like Nick’s. Never a hat, though. I _did_ have a magnifying glass, but I’m pretty sure Nick doesn’t use one of those.”

MacCready bites back more laughter. “I was just thinking about Nick.”

Catherine crosses her arms, offering a smug smile. “Yeah, I figured. But don’t worry — that little obsession is long gone. And until I start digging around through ruined shops for working holotapes of episodes from that show, _you_ have no right to say anything, Mr. Comic Book Collection.”


End file.
